


It Happened One Night

by Laeviss



Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [7]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Reunion, Winter Veil, Wranduin Week 2020, Wranduin Week Holiday Event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28290198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Shortly after his ascension, Anduin receives word, on his way to Winter Veil mass, that the Black Prince has been shot down and apprehended. Although he has finally worked through the pain of the dragon's betrayal, he decides to pay him a visit, and the embers of lingering feelings spark to a blaze when they finally touch once again. Written for the Wranduin Week 2020 Holiday Event prompt "Under the Mistletoe."
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914982
Comments: 14
Kudos: 36





	It Happened One Night

The faint rapping of knuckles stirred Anduin’s attention away from the gilded mirror and towards the rapidly expanding gap between his door and its frame. He opened his mouth, a question forming on his lips, and his hand stilling against the gold lion brooch pinned to his cravat. 

His spymaster’s face, more deeply lined than most at forty-three years, emerged from the darkness. His mouth pulled tightly beneath his neatly-groomed mustache when he cleared his throat and addressed the king. “I’m sorry to bother you, your Majesty. I know you are on your way to mass, but something has...come up.”

The tip of Anduin’s tongue went dry against the back of his teeth. His palm, once pressed gingerly against the front of his waistcoat, dug into his collarbone below. His carriage would be departing from the Keep in fifteen minutes. Any matter Mathias Shaw felt necessary to bring to him at a moment like this…

“It seems we have found the Black Prince.”

Anduin’s brows shot up. The blood drained from his cheeks. Staring into the mirror, he was met by wide eyes and pupils blowing out, threatening to consume the blues of those eyes entirely. His fingers quaked against the curve of his neck. “Excuse me?” He croaked through the lump that had formed in his throat. 

His mind turned, unbidden, to all the possible scenarios that could have brought the spymaster to him to share that declaration. Nothing he could have imagined prepared him for the truth. 

“A scouting brigade up in Coldridge shot him out of the sky. He fell about forty feet into a frozen lake. It seems he suffered some injuries—a dislocated shoulder, a fractured arm, and a significant drop in temperature.”

“I—excuse me?” Anduin cut in. Normally he wouldn’t interrupt a report like this, not even while the long hand of the grandfather clock in the corner clicked ever closer to twelve, but the question escaped him like a gasp. Shot down. Injuries. A swell of conflicting emotions churned in the pit of his stomach.

Shaw tilted his head in the king’s direction and continued at the same speed and pitch. “We decided to detain him here until someone could see to him. We didn’t want to throw him into the infirmary tonight without proper guard. I hope this doesn’t concern you, your Majesty.”

“It—” Anduin stopped. Wrathion was here. _Here_ here, somewhere within the same walls, breathing the same air, waiting somewhere with his arms crossed over his chest and his red eyes blazing. Or...perhaps not the arms, he silently corrected himself, recalling the list of his injuries. Falling forty feet from the sky, shot…

His jaw tightened, and he withdrew his hand from his chest to hang, useless, by his side. The ruffle of his sleeve consumed his limp fingers. He curled them, flexing, fighting to find his voice. 

When it became clear that Anduin wouldn’t be able to continue, Shaw picked up where he had left off. This time, he addressed the end post of Anduin’s bed, giving the king a fair few inches to compose himself. 

“I have stationed Morris and Reed at his door and have Ellis on the roof watching his window. I am given to believe he has become too large to escape through it, but I thought it worth covering all our bases. He has also been secured to the bed with magic-dampening chains.”

“Chains?” Anduin’s voice quivered on the word. He sucked down a breath, swallowing around the lump that had formed in his throat, and smoothing his palms over the blue embroidered silk sides of his tailcoat. His bare feet felt out of place beneath his trousers as he padded across the rug in Shaw’s direction. 

Their eyes met, and the king frowned, summoning what he hoped would be a commanding tone despite the slight hitch in his breath. “I understand your concern, but please, remove the chains and give him some space. Is he somewhere in the tower?”

“Yes, sir. The fourth floor.”

“Let him have the floor. Our soldiers shot him, after all.” Anduin forced a smile, even though those words hadn’t gotten any easier. He cursed where they led his mind. “I think we owe him that much. What’s the worst he can get up to, anyways? Rifling through the library?”

The king chuckled, humorless and a bit too slow. The spymaster caught his eye and nodded once, though the lines around his mouth showed no signs of softening. 

“If you say so, sir. I will focus our guard on the stairwell.”

“Thank you, Spymaster,” Anduin replied. Though the carriage waiting at the bottom of the Keep stairs had become difficult to summon in his mind’s eye, he forced his thoughts to turn to it. Drawing back his shoulders, he lowered onto the corner of his bed and lifted one foot, then the other, to slip on his leather boots and button them at the ankle. 

Their heels clicked against the stone floor when he rose and readjusted his waistcoat. After paying the gilded mirror a final glance, he stepped past the spymaster and into his private study. The final embers of his hearth fire glowed, nestled in a bed of coals. Something about their smolder drew him to other thoughts, other moments spent with his arms folded on a table and his eyes narrowed in deep concentration. 

Then, like now, he had been keenly aware of fiery orbs taking in every rise and fall of his chest. Roving over the details, noting lapses in his composure and momentary indecision even he didn’t fully recognize.

A chill crawled up his spine when he turned away from them, and he drew his shoulder blades together to prevent it from reaching his neck. He leveled his chin, fixing his gaze on the door and turning his mind towards a simple Winter Veil hymn he had always enjoyed. 

After a note or two, he forgot the tune. With a sigh, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and hurried down the tower stairs. When he passed the fourth floor, he paid the darkened hallway a glance, then wrenched his gaze away and studied the gold tips of his shoes with renewed interest. 

By the time he reached the final landing, the gentle pad of Mathias Shaw’s leather boots had joined his louder footfalls echoing in the stairwell above.

* * *

Neither the cold wind whipping through Cathedral Square nor the bustle of nobles and commoners huddled together in the church interior could set right Anduin’s mind. He took his seat at the front of the congregation and folded his hands in his lap. When the Greymanes slid in on his left, he wondered if they knew what had transpired that night. When the bishop rose and lit the sacred lamp, he stared into the flames and imagined them pouring from Wrathion’s draconic maw. When they began on _‘Kyrie, eléison’_ the mercy on Anduin’s mind had little to do with the Light. 

The words of the sermon made little sense when strung together on the threads of memories and half-resolved feelings. Closing his eyes and lowering his head, the king finally resigned himself to them. A pang of betrayal. A jolt of fear. A hateful thought of the boy he had once loved plummeting from the sky by his soldier’s hand…

After the final rite, the king rose to light the first candle, fumbling for a moment with the match, having to strike the tray twice before it sparked. He cupped his hand around the hot flame and lowered it into the largest of the glass votives, bowing mechanically and turning on his heels to limp down the aisle towards the door. 

His carriage waited at the bottom of the stairs. Wordlessly he ducked into it and settled, pulling closed the door to shield the interior from the cold. 

“Light bless you, your Majesty,” the driver called through the crack in the window. 

“And you as well, sir,” Anduin replied as he shuffled to free his tailcoat from beneath his thighs. 

“Shall I take us around to the Trade District, sir? The electric lights look beautiful tonight.”

“Oh, no thank you,” Anduin answered, biting his bottom lip to stifle his quickening speech. “Just to the Keep, please. I have matters to attend to before morning.”

“As you wish, sir.” With that, the carriage rocked forward, then sideways. Anduin pressed his palm against the far wall and listened to the clop of hoofbeats picking up on the street in front of him. 

By the time the beats found their rhythm, Anduin’s mind had fixed itself fully on the prisoner trapped in his tower. So much had gone wrong in the previous year, from his failed negotiations in Lordaeron to the rumblings of war in northwestern Kalimdor, but of all the matters he had expected to face in the new year, Wrathion’s capture hadn’t been one of them.

He had given up that fear long ago; Wrathion’s nightly presence in his dreams had diminished from daily to weekly, and, after that, from weekly to once in a confusing while. The last time he had awoken thinking about Wrathion, it had been of them standing side by side in the shadow of a draenei at the tavern, talking amiably, chatting, even. 

When his eyes had slid open that morning, the ache that tended to follow those dreams hadn’t come. Anduin wished he could summon that same peace now, but as they neared the Keep and its towers obstructed the stars from Anduin’s view, it returned to claw at his heart and send its clammy tendrils crawling up his back.

Adjusting his waistcoat and waving away the driver’s arm when it jutted out to support his exit, he clutched the carriage door and eased himself onto the front stair. With a polite nod and a short ‘season’s greetings,’ he hurried into the Keep with the tails of his coat fluttering behind him.

After dodging into a side stairwell and taking the steps as quickly as the ache in his knee would permit, he passed a shadow darkening the corner of the fourth floor landing, acknowledging them with a nod but offering no explanation to excuse his presence. Thankfully, the SI:7 agent didn’t demand one. 

He quickened over the threshold, onto the blue and gold runner leading down the hall to the guest rooms. The rug’s springy weave padded the click of his heels, but the hiss of his breath, increasingly ragged with every step, filled the space from floor to ceiling. 

By the time he reached the unassuming sixth door, identical to the others except that it had been left partially ajar, he swallowed and gave it a nudge with his shoulder. What shape would he find the dragon in? Another wave of fear struck, washing over him to settle in the pit of his stomach. A memory took shape: his own body, broken and bound by casts, and the dragon peering at his pained smile with furrowed brows, nudging a dumpling with chopsticks between his lips... 

The king entered the room backwards. He swallowed, and turned to where he thought the dragon would be. To his surprise, the bed was deserted, pillows thrown about and blankets wrinkled, and no trace of its presumed inhabitant…

Had he already missed him? Had he been dragged away in Anduin’s absence? 

The king’s jaw clenched until an ache shot up to his temples. The back of his heel knocked against the floorboard as he readied a hasty exit, but his eyes fell on the window, to a head of thick curls silhouetted by the clear winter moon. 

Anduin cleared his throat. Slowly, the figure shifted, two slits of red widening to upturned ovals in the shadows. “My dear king,” Wrathion murmured, his voice deeper and hazier than the last time the two had spoken. “If you wanted me here for the holidays, you could have simply sent me an invitation.”

“You should be in bed,” Anduin pointed out. His knees locked under the heat of Wrathion’s stare, and he cast his gaze to the right, pointedly towards the blankets pooling at the foot of the mattress. 

The dragon replied with a half-shrug of the shoulder not currently bound to his chest. “And you should be celebrating with your people, should you not? And yet here you are, playing nurse to me. How fascinating.”

“The midnight mass is already over. I just stopped by on my way up to bed. A healer will be coming for you in the morning.”

“Oh, I see,” Wrathion drawled, leaning back against the window frame and straightening the leg he had propped up on the sill. When he spoke again, it seemed he had dropped his line of questioning. Anduin drew in a breath and inched closer a few paces to listen:

“To pass the time, I have taken to studying these electric lights your people have strung around their trees. It’s quite impressive, really. I had no idea electricity could be pushed through wires that small.”

“We have the gnomes to thank for that,” Anduin admitted, craning his neck to see past the point on the window against which Wrathion tapped his nail. Beyond, a large triangle lit in blues poked up from between two roofs, a star blazing in gold at its apex. The glass warped and distorted its glow ever-so-slightly, like stars rippling across a pond disturbed by the wind.

With a low hum, Wrathion tucked his uninjured hand under his sling, and mused, “I have seen so many people heading in that tree’s direction tonight, it’s any wonder their high king decided not to join them.”

Anduin froze. A rush of heat flooded his cheeks, but the dragon didn’t pay him a glance, not even when he gasped out a short “I’ll see it tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” Wrathion nodded, his thick hair bouncing. “I’m sure it looks even better in daylight, like all electric lamps do.”

The king’s lips rounded to question him, but the sound died with a choke, high in the back of his throat. His brows creased his forehead beneath his crown, before knitting together above his eyes as a scowl overcame his features. What nerve did Wrathion have, coming back to him after what he had done, only to _tease_ him about stopping to check on his well being? 

When he chuckled, the jarring tinkle of it rang in Anduin’s ears. 

He ground his teeth, turning his attention from Wrathion’s face to the beard jutting out from his jaw. It was fuller and thicker than the small strip of hair that had tipped his chin in their youth. Once it came into focus, the details surrounding it fell into place, as well. His broadened shoulders and the patch of hair peeking out from under his sling. His long legs, which he had to bend to keep perched on a sill that would have easily accommodated Anduin himself until recently.

There were other things, too, he noticed. Faint lines had set in between the dragon’s perfectly groomed eyebrows, betraying the number of times he had furrowed them in his short life. There were deep circles under his eyes that had nothing to do with the kohl he used to line his lashes. His cheeks were gaunt, and his lips chapped. The white cloth strapped over his opposite shoulder was stained dark at the point where chest and forearm met. 

“Oh,” Anduin gasped with a small frown. “You’re bleeding.”

The dragon’s eyelids eclipsed the red slivers below as he lowered his gaze to his injury. “Oh, so I am,” he mused. Dabbing the pad of his finger against the stain, he withdrew it to regard the transfer in the moonlight. “A pity, really. I hear dragon’s blood is fetching quite the price in the Black Market Auction House these days. It’s quite precious, you know.”

There was a lightness to his voice, but he didn’t lift his eyes to punctuate the joke, not like he’d done a moment before. Instead, his lips tightened beneath his mustache, and he dabbed again. 

Another pang gripped Anduin’s chest. Before he had time to consider the gesture, he shot out his hand, gently batting the dragon’s fingers away to press his own palm against the injury. 

The wound throbbed, warm even through layers of bandages. Drawing in a breath and calling the Light in all its forms—from the cold power of the moon to the warm brush of a naaru’s glow against his skin—he summoned it to his grasp, sending tendrils down through the stained cloth and into the tear in Wrathion’s skin. 

He knit it together, enough, at least, to stop the blood flow. Beneath him, Wrathion tensed.

“Ah, thank you,” the dragon whispered. He didn’t move, not even after Anduin withdrew his hand. 

“It’s fine,” Anduin responded with a slight shake of his head. Flexing his fingers, he tucked them into the pocket of his trousers and rose to his full height. 

The dragon sighed and leaned the side of his head against the window. His gaze lifted to the stars speckling the glass above. 

Licking his lips, Anduin followed his stare, breaking the pause with what he hoped was an amiable “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“For what?” Wrathion quirked a brow. 

“That you were shot, I mean.”

“Oh.”

The dragon lifted his uninjured arm to his opposite ear, sweeping back a few tousled curls, successfully obstructing his face from view. “Ah, well, I suppose I should have been wary, flying so close to Stormwind.”

“What were you doing, anyways?” Anduin couldn’t help but ask. His voice leapt on the question, and he dug his hand deeper into his pocket, not wanting to sound _too_ eager for a reply. 

“Oh, you know. Looking at the stars, assessing the rhythm of the tides, a fair number of things I fear a mortal like you wouldn’t comprehend. I was on a very important mission when they interrupted me.” 

“I see.” Anduin drew back his shoulders. Unlike the previous jab, this one didn’t stir up the same irritation. He had known the dragon long enough to recognize when he was dodging a question, long enough to know that, were the lie grounded in any real cause for concern, he would have met the king’s gaze and punctuated his words with a dazzling smile.

Instead, he shifted, rumpling his thick hair against the glass and pursing his lips. His slit pupils thinned; his unbound hand flagged in his lap. 

Leaning into the heel of his left foot to relieve some of the stress on his right, Anduin watched him in silence, allowing him space to continue on his own terms. 

Finally, the dragon huffed, his hot breath fogging the glass. He dragged his knuckle across it, leaving a clean swipe in his wake, before murmuring, as speaking to himself alone, “I was simply seeking shelter from the cold: some place I wouldn’t be recognized. I suppose I was foolish to think that possible, especially this far south, this close to—”

“They didn’t shoot thinking it was you, you know,” Anduin felt the need to correct, though he wouldn’t let himself wonder why that assertion leapt so quickly to his tongue.

Wrathion lifted his head to glance over his shoulder. “They didn’t?” 

“No.” Anduin shook his head. “And SI:7 brought you here as soon as they figured it out.”

“That much I remember, yes. Something about needing me to transform as the three of them dragged me onto the snow. And then they chained me.”

“I didn’t ask them to do that.”

“But I’m still a wanted man, am I not? Chains or no chains?”

“I mean—” The king stopped. A numbness started as a tingle on his lower lip and spread to prickle his scalp. Mathias Shaw hadn’t mentioned if this matter would be handled discreetly, or if Wrathion would be brought before the House of Nobles. News of Wrathion’s capture was likely to spread, and if it did, there would be those pounding on the door of the Royal Quarters demanding justice. 

‘And they have cause to. And so do I,’ Anduin reminded himself, chastising his lips for falling into a frown at the thought. He cursed the sip of communion wine that had somehow managed to burn the back of his throat. 

Staring, unfocused, at the window, an image of Wrathion wrapped in chains and dragged out into the stocks flooded his mind. His regal limbs shoved into manacles and his hair caked with mud flung at him by some onlooker or another, some former champion cheated out of their reward or some merchant who lost their shop in the Cataclysm. 

He couldn’t stomach it. There was nothing else left to do. Drawing back his shoulders, he loosened his cravat, then rolled his tailcoat off of his shoulders and shook it onto the floor behind him. The sudden flutter of fabric drew a glance from the dragon. That glance widened to a stare. 

His mouth slackened. Any performative lilt left in his tone wavered as incredulosity set in. “Anduin, what are you—?”

“Let me heal you,” Anduin replied, taking a tentative step forward. “Please.”

After a blink or two, Wrathion turned, letting his leg fall from the sill and sitting with his back to the glass. “But you already did.”

A flush rushed up Anduin’s neck beneath his ponytail. Rather than answering, he looked to Wrathion’s shoulder, tracing the sling down to where it bound his elbow in an awkward bend. When he trusted himself to speak again, he cleared his throat and tried to explain: “I mean _heal you_ heal you, so you can fly.”

“Oh!” Wrathion’s slit pupils swelled. For a brief moment, he looked entirely at a loss, until his lips spread into a grin that strained the corners of his mouth. “Well, well, it seems my dear prince hasn’t changed a bit.”

Anduin let out an emphatic sigh and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to snap or force a laugh, so he groaned, “Just...help me undo the sling before I change my mind.”

“As you wish, my dear.” The dragon’s voice thickened with an opaque mix of emotions. “I suppose I can do it like this—”

Bending his left arm, Wrathion scratched at the stray end of the knotted cloth slung around his left shoulder. He caught a thread and tugged, but it snapped under the pluck of his pointed nails. After another attempt or two, it became clear he wouldn’t be able to untangle it at this angle, especially without the use of his dominant hand.

Anduin scooted closer, catching his wrist and gently lowering it to the side. Another surge of heat rushed to his face at the contact, and for a second he was loath to let go, but he did, willing his mind on the task at hand.

Sliding his fingers into the knot, he worked it free, undoing the tightening done by Wrathion’s ill-directed tugs. He eased one end into the space between the dragon’s back and the window, his knuckles brushing past his curls in the process. He lowered the other across his chest.

The dragon caught on quickly. He bent at the waist, giving the king room to unwind. His breath warmed Anduin’s lower abdomen and made him clench his thighs, but he furrowed his brow and focused until the stained linen slipped free and the bullet hole on Wrathion’s shoulder was exposed.

Sliding one hand under the dragon’s elbow to support him, he used the other to peel back a strip of gauze caked with clotted blood. Wrathion’s breath hitched when it pulled free, but he said nothing. His stare remained fixed on Anduin’s waist and his arm, pliant, in Anduin’s grasp.

“All right.” The king stepped back an inch to assess his injuries. His shoulder was clearly out of place, despite what looked—by the bruising around his scapula—to have been an aggressive attempt to reset it. Then there was the wound itself, about as large as a silver coin, in one side, and, Anduin discovered, out the other. 

At least he wouldn’t need to perform an extraction. 

“All right,” he repeated, supporting Wrathion’s elbow on the heel of his hand. “I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you this, but it’s probably going to hurt.”

“Do your worst, my dear,” the dragon replied. The corner of his mouth twitched; the lines between his brows deepened. 

“Okay.” Closing his eyes and turning another prayer to the Light, he warmed the tips of his fingers with its soothing heat and slid them carefully up his arm. The muscles beneath relaxed deeper with every whisper that slipped from his lips. He lifted his arm and pulled outward. 

Wrathion’s mouth snapped closed as a puff of smoke curled from his flaring nostrils. He blinked, the red glow of his eyes disappearing under the gold light Anduin poured upon his face. 

Euphoria that began in the depths of Anduin’s heart spread outward, taking shape and engulfing the dragon in its embrace. The king directed it from his bruised shoulder to the hole shot through him. It flooded into the darkness, stimulating life, taking root in his muscles and bones. 

The skin closed around both ends, shimmering with the power working beneath it. After a final glimmer, it evened to its usual deep bronze hue. Squeezing closed his eyes, Anduin bowed forward and let out a ragged breath. 

It was only when Wrathion’s chest bumped against his nose and his hair tickled his upper lip that he realized he had rested his forehead against his collarbone. 

This time, by the grace of the Light or, perhaps, some shared desire for it to continue as long as possible, Wrathion didn’t have a jab ready to point it out. 

Anduin drew in a breath, inhaling the lingering scent of the dragon’s cologne in his hair, the metallic tinge of blood, and what he suspected was gunpowder. With that, he forced his body upright. His hands moved to adjust his waistcoat and the cravat loosened from the collar. His gaze caught on a crack in the stone sill a few inches left of the dragon’s hip.

“You should probably go,” he heard himself say. “The gryphon riders won’t be out until dawn, and most of the rampart guards have been given the day off for the holiday.” 

“I hope none of the ones that remain are particularly enthusiastic with their guns.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Anduin tried to joke, though it sounded thin leaving his lips. “The soldiers in Stormwind only carry crossbows.”

“An excellent trade! I would love nothing more than a barbed arrow to the back to put me in the holiday spirit.”

Anduin smiled—a real, genuine smile—and his mind went to work. He considered the various routes out of the city by air: the north wall heading towards the lake, the east parapet, the agent biding his time perched on the shingled overhang of the floor below. 

When he made up his mind, he straightened his shoulders and stepped back onto the rug at the foot of what had been the dragon’s bed. “Here, follow me. Shaw has agents at the end of the hall, but they won’t stop you if you’re with me. There’s a balcony in my room that opens up over the gardens. No one will be watching out there this late at night.”

“All right, my dear, lead the way.” Wrathion rose, smoothing back his hair and rolling his newly-healed shoulder. Satisfied with the range of motion he achieved, he crossed his arms over his bare chest and followed the king out the door, into the hall, and past the agent, who bristled but made no attempt to stop their monarch.

Sometimes the burden of the crown had its advantages, too, Anduin thought to himself, though he perked up his ears and made sure they weren’t being followed up the last few spirals of stairs leading to the door to his private chambers. 

Easing it open, he led Wrathion over the threshold. The dragon cast a faint red glow across the otherwise darkened study. Quickening around him, Anduin fumbled on the desk for his lamp. His fingers closed around the knob and he turned it with a flick of his wrist. It sparked to life, spreading its halo over the stack of letters that had accumulated on one corner of his desk and the neat cup of quills perched on the other.

Wrathion let out a hum, low in the back of his throat, but he didn’t stare, instead waiting in the middle of the room and looking as if he were trying to focus on nothing. When he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, Anduin coughed and cleared his throat. 

Willing his mind to forget the number of times he had pictures this exact moment, his dreams of finally having the dragon curled up by his furnace or resting his head against his pillows, he strolled towards the bedroom door and turned the handle.

Without looking back, he lifted his arm and gestured for Wrathion to follow. Perhaps he had imagined it, but he could have sworn he heard the pad of his bare feet falter when the bed came into view. 

“I’m guessing they took your shirt and shoes for some reason,” the king said, not waiting for an answer before taking off towards his closet. 

“The shirt, yes,” Wrathion called from the doorway. “But I really can’t recall where I lost the shoes.”

“Here.” Anduin pulled a blue padded coat off a hanger, before straining onto his toes to snatch a blue scarf from a box perched atop the rack. “Take these, at least, and I can get you shoes…”

Wrathion met Anduin’s return with a bemused stare. His eyes widened when they fell upon the items burdening the king’s arms. He pursed his lips and ran his nails through his beard.

There was a pause, drawn out long enough to make the king squirm; finally, he replied, “You do realize I’m a dragon, don’t you?” He took a single step in Anduin’s direction. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, deeper. “Just the scarf is fine, Anduin. I don’t wish to take your things.”

“But you aren’t taking them,” he pointed out, holding out his arms. “I’m offering them to you.”

“Really, Anduin, you’ve done enough. Just the scarf is more than sufficient. Just a little thing for me to remember you by.”

The pang returned, deep in the pit of Anduin’s stomach. He glanced at the floor, and the load in his arms suddenly felt too cumbersome to manage. Pivoting on his heels, he spilled the clothing on his bed before plucking out the scarf and holding it out in Wrathion’s direction.

The knotted ends dragged across the dragon’s feet when he stepped forward to take it. After shoving it into his hands without studying the slight change in his expression, the king nodded and pointed a shaky finger towards the door. 

“All right, then,” he managed through the tightness that gripped his throat. “The door’s over here, just through the study. Watch your step. I might have left a few books on the floor.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Anduin with his eyes fixed on the darkened Winter Veil tree in the opposite corner, and Wrathion with his scarf draped loosely over his bare shoulders. 

When they arrived at the glass double doors leading out to Anduin’s balcony, the king turned the latch and pressed down on the horn shaped handle. The door clicked, and a cold wind swept through the widening crack, stinging Anduin’s cheeks and sending a shiver racing up his spine. 

‘You could just invite him to stay,’ nagged a voice at the back of his mind, but despite all his fond thoughts to the mornings they’d awoken tangled together under silk blankets at the Tavern in the Mists, and beyond any doubts that Wrathion might say no, Anduin knew in his heart the risk was too great. 

Staring at the sky, he stated, as firmly as he could muster, “All right, Wrathion. Be safe.”

“I shall try my best.” Wrathion stepped into the doorway, partially obstructing the wind from ruffling Anduin’s hair. Despite the bareness of his skin, the cold didn’t seem to affect the dragon. He wound the scarf once around his neck, but it sagged too far down between his pecs to provide any real protection. 

Their eyes met. Anduin let out the breath he was holding. His breath fogged the air between them. After lowering his gaze and tilting his chin, the dragon took a step back, then looked up.

“Oh.” He lifted a pointed nail towards the garland of fir and red berries strung over the door. He attempted a laugh that mostly got lost in the wind seeping through at his sides. “That’s mistletoe, is it not?”

“Holly,” Anduin corrected, before the weight of what the dragon had asked sank in. His shoulders tensed, and his arms froze, rigid, by his side. 

A deep glow overcame the dragon’s dark cheeks, and he licked his lower lips, audibly swallowing. “Ah, holly. Well, then—”

“Wrathion—” 

Anduin moved into the gap between Wrathion’s feet, bringing his hands up to cup his cheeks. The dragon’s eyes widened, his pupils sucking inwards and disappearing into a sea of red. They fluttered closed, and Anduin made his move. Resting his palms against Wrathion’s bearded jaw, he tilted his head and brushed their mouths lightly together. 

The dragon’s mustache tickled his upper lip, and when he exhaled, his hot breath warmed the tip of his nose. Stepping closer, he deepened his pressure, until Wrathion’s arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him close, close enough that his waistcoat and ruffled cravat pressed against his skin. 

He slid his own hands through Wrathion’s hair and draped his own arms over his shoulders, until the wool of his scarf scratched lightly at the insides of his elbows. The dragon tightened his grip on his sides and turned him until the open door pressed against his back. As they kissed, it squeaked on its hinges behind them. 

When Wrathion murmured, and dipped the tip of his tongue into Anduin’s mouth, the icy glass and the chill of the wind rushing past them melted away, and all he could feel was _warm._

The heat of Wrathion’s mouth sucking on his lower lip and the heat of his skin pressing against Anduin’s body became one—but, all at once, it was gone. 

Wrathion withdrew his hands and took a step back onto the balcony. His crimson eyes darted to Anduin’s swollen lower lip, and he smiled, a kind of regretful smile that tied Anduin’s stomach in knots. 

The gap between them tugged, magnetic in its irresistible pull, but he gripped the open door and drove his heels into the ground, knowing if he stepped forward into the night Wrathion wouldn’t be leaving until dawn. 

“Ah, yes, well, mistletoe or not, that seemed to do rather nicely,” Wrathion mused, though his tone was far too weighty for the jest. 

“Wrathion.” Anduin swallowed, taking a moment to collect himself, before adding, “When you get to wherever you’re going, please, at least let me know. You don’t have to tell me where you are, just—”

“I understand, my dear. I wouldn’t want you to worry.”

“Yeah,” the human admitted, another blush threatening his cold-numbed cheeks. “Thank you.”

When Wrathion nodded, his curls swayed about his face, catching the light of the moon sinking beneath the Keep’s tiled roof. There were only a few feet between them now, a few steps to claim one last kiss, before Wrathion turned and disappeared…

It was too late. Clutching the railing, Wrathion sprung up onto it, fixing his eyes on the darkness. He jumped, and for a single, heart stopping moment Anduin thought he had fallen. Then, something beat at the air below. A dark shadow shot up to block out the stars, sending a gust rushing over the balcony that rattled every window and shook the doors.

Anduin cursed himself for squeezing closed his eyes, but what could he do with the wind beating against his face. When he opened them, Wrathion was already a shrinking shape in the distance, darting into the shadows cut across the Keep lawn by the mountains, and not re-emerging again until he’d cleared the gap and swept up into the sky. 

Something wet prickled at the corners of Anduin’s eyes and gathered beneath his lashes. Clenching his jaw, he swept the side of his thumb under one lid, then the other, blinking, and praying to stay their flood. 

‘It’s probably just the cold,’ he wanted to tell himself, but he’d never been as convincing a liar as the Black Prince, in matters of the heart or anything else. 

‘Pretending he doesn’t remember what mistletoe looks like,’ Anduin added to himself, in panicked desperation as he swallowed a sob and pulled closed the doors. How could he not, after all the fuss he had made of hanging it, and all the glee lighting his face the first time he and Anduin passed under it together...

* * *

The Sunday after the Winter Veil feast, Anduin awoke to the sound of one of his servants setting down a tray on his desk. After giving them a moment to exit, he slipped out from under the covers, wrapping a thick flannel robe around his blue linen pants and hugging his arms to his simple white shirt. 

He nudged open his bedroom door with his elbow and rushed across bare stone to his thick woven rug. Kindling sparked, likely, by the servant, crackled happily in his stove, but the flames weren’t high enough yet to make much of a difference. 

Scooping up a mug of hot coffee from his breakfast tray, he cupped it in his hands and pressed it against his chest, clinging to its heat, inhaling the rich scent of its contents and staring blankly at his desk. 

On the center of the surface, between his unread letters and his quills, something popped. His eyes flew open, and he staggered, sloshing a few drops of coffee against the front of his robe. 

He shook off one of his hands, but didn’t look down, too transfixed by the small parchment scroll taking shape on the table before him. A purple ribbon wrapped around its middle, and attached to it by an even smaller string hung a single sprig of mistletoe, preserved by an enchantment that cast its white berries in an opalescent glow. 

With a tentative step, he approached, poking it with the tip of his finger before easing the mistletoe out of the binding knot.

Once free, the parchment unfurled, revealing a message scrawled in a familiar hand. 

_The Guardian urged me to send this to you,_ Wrathion wrote, with nothing by way of address. _Though, really, I’d prefer if you didn’t hang it up until next we meet. I can’t have those nobles getting ideas._

When Anduin squeezed closed his eyes, he could hear Wrathion murmuring the words, though whether that was his own mind at work or a spell cast upon the message he couldn’t be sure. Guardian, he had said, which had to mean…

Blinking, Anduin tucked the sprig of mistletoe into the pocket of his robe and approached the doors leading out to his balcony. He could feel the cold from outside slipping through the cracks at his feet, but he didn’t recoil. 

Cupping a hand over his eyes, he gazed at the mountains. The sky was cloudless, clear except for a few specks of black in the distance. Anduin turned a prayer to the Light, for the dragon’s safety, and for the day he would swoop through the mountains and land on Anduin’s balcony once again.


End file.
